No Love No Glory
by withoutaburn
Summary: PreRENT. Roger and April's relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Rated: R - for language, drug use, violence, thematic elements, and mild sexual situations. Wow, I sound so formal. XD

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters. The title, "No Love, No Glory," is a line from the song "The Blower's Daughter," by Damien Rice.

Dedicated to Luisa, who wrote at least 2/5 of this story, and Sami, for helping me out early on and providing inspiration for the teacher and the students in the hall. Love you both.

* * *

Grabbing his backpack, Roger slammed the car door without so much as a goodbye or a wave to his father. It was the beginning of another week, another one he wasn't looking forward to. Especially with his new black eye to show off. Pushing his way through the crowd of students waiting to get into the building, he made his way to the steps and sat down, a bitter-looking expression on his face as he put his chin in his hand. Several giggly girls, dressed almost entirely in pink, skipped by, pointing at his black nails and bruised eye, and whispered comments which were clearly rude amongst each other. He considered giving them the finger, but they were already gone. Glancing through the bars of the wrought iron railing, he found himself unable to turn away from the familiar sight of students buying drugs. One student, a senior by looks, collected and eagerly counted the money practically thrown at him by others, who shouted things like "Thanks, man!" as they ran away.

"Are you okay?" a soft voice asked, kind of nervously, tapping him gently on the shoulder. Roger whirled around and found himself staring at a girl.

"Wh-what? What the hell do you want!" he shouted, glaring at the girl.

"You were just kind of staring, I thought something might be wrong..." she trailed off and looked down, an embarrased expression on her face as she cautiously bit her bottom lip.

"Nothing's wrong, okay! Just leave me alone!" He threw his hands in the air and turned away from her.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," the girl said, standing slowly and looking down at Roger. "I'll go, then, I guess."

"Wait! Wait, please...I didn't mean to yell like that. I really didn't. I'm just having a bad day - week - year - whatever. Just...don't go..." Roger stuttered out awkwardly. He felt guilty looking at her sad face.

She sat back down next to him on the steps as he moved his guitar case out of the way. "It's okay, we all have our days," she said, surprisingly understandingly. "Umm...if you don't mind my asking...what happened to your eye?"

"Oh, that?" he asked, a forced smile on his face. "I...I was in a fight. Some guys tried to mug me, and, y'know..." His eyes glanced down so that they no longer met the girl's. "What's your name, anyway?" he asked quickly, trying to change the subject. "You're not in 10th, are you? 'Cause I don't think I've ever seen you around..."

"I'm April. April Ingelsby. And no, I'm in 9th. And you are?"

"Roger Davis."

April smiled, her blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight. It was the sweetest thing Roger had ever seen. But the moment was interrupted by the doors opening, and the crowd of students rushing in. Before he could realize it, she had stood up and was joining the crowd of the people entering the building. "I'll see you later, then!" he yelled, not knowing why.

The morning seemed to last forever. Roger had never been a particularly good student, but he found himself unable to concentrate at all. He pulled out his schedule, hoping he had a class he could just sleep through. "Oh, shit," he muttered. Geometry - possibly his least favorite subject. He walked through the hall as slowly as he could, staring down at his feet. Arriving at the classroom, he took his usual seat in the back row; left corner of the room, next to the window. This was probably the easiest class for him to lose focus in. He didn't understand a word Mrs. Lopez was saying, that was certain, and he didn't particularly care to, either. Instead, he started out the window at the gray coulds that were assembling overhead, making everything look dark and ominous. He had no idea how much timead passed when a sharp tapping on his blank notebook pulled him from his daydreaming (if it could be called that).

"Mister Davis," a cold voice said. Roger looked up to see the small, beady eyes of Mrs. Lopez.

"Yes?" He said. He tried to look as innocent as possible, but even that wasn't going to help him much. He hadn't the faintest idea of what was happening in class.

"Can you tell me the answer to the problem on the board?"

Roger stared at the shapes and numbers written. Deciding that he was never going to figure out how to solve it, he just picked a random number. "Umm...three?"

The class erupted in laughter, except for Mrs. Lopez, who glared down at Roger. "Tell me, Mister Davis, have you been paying any attention at all to this class?"

He could have lied. He was an excellent liar, and he knew it. So everyone was shocked when he said "No," as if it were the most blatantly obvious thing ever.

"Mister Davis, I am not impressed. Your homework is never complete, if ever done, you show a distinct lack of motivation, and you have no particularly welcoming traits. Tell me, exactly, how do you plan to spend the rest of your life? Because if you don't get your act together, and do it soon, you'll fail in life much like you are this class." There were several laughs and gasps scattered throughout the room, but the person the most in shock wound up being Roger himself. The last thing he had expected was to be hurt by the teacher's remarks.

There was a long, awkward silence, and the bell rang.

Roger stormed to his locker. He couldn't be happier the day was over, yet the bitter feelings he had inside had just grown since the morning. Putting his combination in the lock, he listened to the sound of the girl across the hall, Mandy, giggling between kisses from her boyfriend Andrew. Roger turned around as her friend, Margaret, yelled, "Mandy! We're in the middle of the hall!" and her very tall boyfriend Dan slipped his arm playfully around her waist. Roger threw his books in his bag in disgust. Pushing his way through the two couples, he made his way to the door, breathing deeply in the thick city air.

His walk home was close to half an hour, but it seemed oddly short today. Reaching his apartment, he unlocked the door, opened it, and slammed it behind him. He threw his backpack on the floor and walked back to his room, not bothering to take off his heavy boots. He hurled his old leather jacket across the room; it landed in a heap on his floor. Collapsing on his bad - a matress in the corner of the room - he stared up at the chipping white paint on the ceiling. The day replayed itself over and over in his head, until before he realized it, hot, bitter tears had welled in his eyes. They slowly slid from the corners of his eyes down the side of his face, reaching the matress below, and he was unable to control it. Hours passed as he sat in the silence, the light growing dimmer as the sun set over New York City.

Around 6, Roger heard the front door close and he tensed, sitting up slightly. "Roger! Get out here now!" the harsh voice of his father called. Silently, he got up from his mattress and walked out of his room, avoiding eye contact with him. He looked down at his boots, now standing a foot from his father. "Your school called today. Your geometry teacher, Mrs. Something-or-other. She says you're failing, and you never pay attention." His father paused for an answer, but Roger said nothing, so he continued. "I'm sick of dealing with your shit, Roger! You can't expect to slack off and have me cover your ass all the time! You know what that teacher lady asked? She wanted to know if you were having problems at home! You keep doing this badly, they're gonna start blaming me for your problems!" Roger's father paused to take a long swig of beer from the bottle in his hand that Roger hadn't noticed. He tried to ignore his father, who continued yelling. _That girl, from the steps this morning...what was her name? April? She had the most beautiful smile..._ "Roger! Are you listening to me!" his father shouted, making him look up. "God, I can't deal with you anymore!" he yelled through gritted teeth, raising his hand and slapping Roger's face. Roger's hand went automatically to his cheek, which immediately started stinging. Turning quickly, he ran into his room, slamming the door just before his father could reach it, and holding it shut. He sank to the floor as his father banged on the door, screaming awful things through the wood. It was going to be a long night.

The next day, Roger didn't go back to school. After getting dropped off, he waited until his car pulled away, and just started walking. He tried to stay generally in dark alleys; he didn't want anyone to see him. It was the first time he'd realized just how angry he was, as he kicked a small, whimpering puppy that was in the middle of the road. He made sure to be home by four everyday, just in case, but other than the time he had no need to worry about school anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

It was exactly three weeks later when Roger went back to school. He looked horrible: His eye was rebruised and blacker than before, he had a cut on his lower lip, and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days. As he walked through the hall, many people pointed, and Mandy and Margaret started whispering to each other. He glared at them before throwing his bag in his locker and slamming it shut.

"Roger? It is Roger, right?" a soft, gentle voice said. It was April.

"Uhh...yeah...yes...and you're...April, right?" Roger stuttered, becoming strangely nervous when he looked into her eyes.

"Yeah. A-are you okay? I haven't seen you in ages. Did you get mugged again?" she asked, a look of genuine concern on her face.

"Ye-I mean no...I mean...I can't really talk about it now. I've gotta get out of here. I can't stay. I'm sorry. I really am." Roger's gaze lingered on her for a brief moment, before he turned to walk down the crowded hall.

"Wait!" Roger was startled to hear April's voice calling after him. "Let me come. You can tell me what happened." Her voice shook slightly as she spoke, as if she wasn't accustomed to making such requests.

Roger stared, his mouth open slightly. "O-okay then, if you want to..." Awkwardly, he reached for her arm. He nearly pulled back again as they touched, but the reassuring look on her face stopped him. _She's so genuine, so thoughtful_, he thought as he started leading her to the door, slowly at first, but gaining speed quickly.

As they turned the outside corner, April started laughing, and Roger couldn't help but smile. "Come on, we'll take a walk and I'll tell you what happened," he said, not realizing that their hands were still entwined.

They wandered down the nearly empty city streets together. "To tell you the truth, I...I was never mugged," Roger admitted, his eyes glancing down so as not to have to meet hers. He didn't see the worried look on her face as he continued. "I have problems, at home, with my father..." trailing off, he stared at his feet as he spoke. "I got mad, and started skipping school. He just found out two days ago, and...yeah," he gestured to his beat up face. April stopped walking, and he stepped backwards to face her. "What?" he said. He started to lean backwards as her hand rose to his face, but its soft touch on his cheek stopped him.

"God, Roger, I'm so sorry," April said. Her fingers traveled over his bruised eye, moved down his face and over the cut on his lip. Roger breathed deeply, at first trying not to shudder or pull away, but then stood still as her hand slid down his face. Reaching up hesitantly, he grasped it in his own.

"It's okay. I mean, it's not, but there's nothing I can do about it, y'know?" He tried to act as if it wasn't a big deal, but the hurt in his eyes showed it differently. "I should bring you back to school. I don't want to get you in trouble for what I'm doing, okay?" There was a long, awkward silence. He didn't really want her to go back, and somehow he thought April could tell. "Listen, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to get rid of you or anything, I just-"

"It's not that, really. I...I don't want to see you get hurt anymore. It's just not right. And...I want to be here for you. For you to trust me. If you ever need someone to turn to." It was April's turn to look away.

Roger sighed. "You know, you're the first person I've ever told about..." He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. "I wouldn't have told you if I didn't feel like I could trust you. And honestly, I actually feel a little better now that I've told someone." He smiled weakly, and she did the same, nodding sympathetically.

"Do you still think I should go?" April murmured quietly, slipping her hand out of his and staring down at it. There was no response, and she began to turn around.

"No," Roger said after a moment. April spun back to face him again. "I don't. I mean, you can if you want to, but I'd like to talk to you some more." He added the last bit hurriedly, not wanting to seem like he was coming on to her in any way.

A small smile grew across her face. "Okay," she said. "I...I'd like that."

The two of them walked, mostly silent, for a long time. It was around 2:40 when Roger spoke up. "You should go back now," he said, though he didn't want her to leave. "School should be over soon, and I don't want you to get caught skipping. I have a long walk home anyway."

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "I'll see you tomorrow, then? Will you be there?"

"Probably. I don't think I can afford to not be there." Their eyes met, and he was certain she knew exactly what he meant. "See you tomorrow," he said as she turned to go. He watched her as she walked, not wanting to go himself until she was out of sight. Her silky black hair swished against her back as she walked, and Roger couldn't help but think of how beautiful she was. _But she's so sweet, too_, he thought and smiled.

Roger went home happy for the first time he could remember. Shutting himself in his room, he picked up his guitar for the first time in months and began tuning it. He slowly plucked out a song. The name escaped him, some kind of a waltz or something. He only remembered it from his mother playing it often before she left three years earlier. He had always liked the way the bittersweet melody sounded, because no matter how horrible things were, it seemed to be comforting..._almost like April_, he thought, and smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

The dark orange glow from the mid-August setting sun shone in through Roger's small bedroom window. Somehow he still couldn't believe that sitting next to him was April - he was sure that when he turned around she'd be gone, or be someone else. So as hard as it was, he didn't look at her. Instead, he looked at his guitar, which was across his lap.

"Come on! Play something for me. _Pleeeeease_?" April pouted adorably, trying not to giggle.

"I told you, I can't really play much. Until a couple months ago, I had given up on playing all together," he said, but smiled, playing a few notes. April's giddiness disappeared, and instead of laughing or cheering, she leaned to her left and rested her head on his shoulder.

April sighed. "I wish this moment could last forever," she said quietly, almost sadly. Roger didn't know what possessed him in that moment, but he lay aside his guitar, put his hand on her face, and slowly leaned in to her. It was only supposed to be a light kiss on her cheek, but she turned her head. Their lips met. April's shock was momentarily evident - honestly, Roger's was too - but neither stopped. Roger slowly moved his guitar off his lap, and the two moved closer together, pressing their bodies gently against each other. They moved apart for air. April gasped in a quick breath, trying to realize what had happened. "Roger, I...there's something I should tell you, but I don't know how to say it - "

"Then don't say anything at all," Roger said, and wrapped his arms around her.

"I think I'm in love with you."

He didn't know what had come over him, but between the times he kissed her, he slowly extended one hand out towards her hip, a questioning look on his face.

"I'm ready," was all she said as she lifted off her oversized black t-shirt.

April could barely remember what happened. All she knew was that she'd never felt like this before. She was in love with Roger, and he loved her back. She was laying flat on his mattress in the corner, her clothes in a pile on the floor, and he was on top of her. She felt his lips kissing her neck, his hands wrapped around her wrists, his chest pressed against hers, the way their bodies connected and moved as one, and felt like she belonged with him.

What they weren't expecting was the loud bang of wood on wood as Roger's door was flung open. Both Roger and April looked up to see the large shape of a man fill the silhouetted frame of the doorway. April instinctively clutched Roger's arm, and Roger swallowed before whispering in her ear, "Fuck."

"What the fuck is going on in here?" yelled Roger's father, gesturing at April. She instinctively began to move closer to Roger, trying to enfold herself in his arms, but he was staring at his father, and he wouldn't touch her.

"Get up," he snarled. "I said, _get up_!" Roger looked at April fearfully and he murmured, "April, you should go." She reached off the mattress, picking up her large black shirt, recalling briefly how she elegantly slipped out of it not long ago at all (and how different he looked now, gazing at her with that hard and set and scared look that she was so unfamiliar with), and she stopped for a moment, frozen, because Roger's dad had begun to walk menacingly towards them. But his eyes were now fixed on Roger, and so she managed to slip past him, pausing at the door, brushing her fingers against the wooden frame. She stole a glance back at Roger, over her shoulder.

"April, go!" he yelled desperately, losing his emotionless composure, and her gaze lingered on him a moment. Her eyes filled with tears that quickly began streaming down her cheeks. "Just leave!" he shouted, his voice shaking - was he about to cry? - as he quickly pulled on his jeans. She tore her eyes away from him and ran out, slamming the door as she began to sob. As she ran out of the apartment, she could hear Roger cry out in pain and the furious cursing of his father and the spine-shivering sound of flesh upon flesh that made her sick to her stomach, throwing up as soon as she reached the sidewalk.

Roger stared longingly at April as she ran out of the room and slammed the door. He tried to keep his face stoic as the hot flesh of the back of his father's hand struck his cheek, but he couldn't help me - he winced in pain, biting his lower lip to stop from showing everything he felt inside.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing? Fucking some girl while I wasn't home? Thinking I wouldn't find out?" Roger's father hit him again, this time a punch to his left jaw. It was then that he cried out in pain, hoping April would be far enough gone not to hear. The tears that had welled in his eyes as she left, April, the girl he loved, the only girl he'd ever loved, the only girl he ever would love, walked slowly, painfully out his bedroom door after they'd had passionate sex and for the first time in his life, he'd felt like he belonged, those tears, fell slowly out of his eyes, like burning fire against the stinging flesh of his cheek.

"What, are you fucking _crying_ now? Why, because of some fucking whore you could have picked up on the goddamned street for all I care?" His father shoved him. Hard. Roger stumbled backwards, tripping over his guitar - of all things - and his arm smashed into his dresser as he collapsed into the corner. "Get up." Roger's father snarled, walking over and kicking him in the stomach. Not wanting to get his father angrier, Roger struggled to his feet, using his opposite hand to cover his stomach with his hurt arm. He was scared - he couldn't remember ever being this afraid of his father before. But he wasn't fast enough for his father, who'd walked to the door and picked up the beer bottle he'd set down when he entered the room just moments before. Time seemed to slow down as it flew through the air. Roger felt too weak to move, but fell backwards, hitting his head hard against the wall as the glass smashed against his temple. His hand reached slowly to the side of his head. He was stunned to see it covered in his own blood as he brought it back down. He didn't know why he felt so dizzy. He half-stumbled, half-ran past his father, who threw out his arm to punch Roger's shoulder, to the phone - barely managing to dial 911. He was slowly becoming disoriented, the blood flowing faster and faster from his head, but he managed to get out his address before collapsing to the floor unconcious.

When Roger awoke, he had no idea what time it was, what day it was, or how long he had been asleep. All he knew was that he was in pain. He felt as if he was unable to move. "He's awake," he heard a voice say, and he tried to turn his head to look, but he was unable. "Well, Mr. Davis, you certainly have been through a lot."

"What-what happened?" Roger stammered.

"Well, we don't know the circumstances - no one else was in the apartment when the paramedics arrived - but we do know that you suffered a major concussion, needed two stitches in your right temple, the left side of your jaw was completely shattered, and your right arm was fractured in four places." Roger could see, now, that his arm was in a cast and a sling. "You're going to need surgery on your jaw - the damage looks completely fixable, and hopefully there won't be any lasting marks. That's been scheduled for this evening. For now, we have some painkillers that should sedate you."

"April, April," Roger murmured. "I'm so sorry."

"There, there," the doctor said as a nurse carefully inserted a needle into his arm. "Everything's going to be fine."


	4. Chapter 4

"I hate the fall," Roger murmured bitterly as he stared out the window. The expression on his face was blank, emotionless, as it almost always was anymore. He didn't turn his head as he heard the front door open and close, knowing it was his father, even though it was far too early for him to be out of work.

"Roger, go get the mail!" he yelled, sitting down on the old couch and opening a beer.

Roger stood slowly and walked to the door, his head down. _A year and a half ago I would have yelled at him for not getting it on his way up_, he thought melancholily. The steps downstairs seemed to take forever, but he didn't care. His head felt heavy, and it hung forward, his eyes not gazing off his feet. Reaching the mailbox, he grabbed the few envelopes that sat there, and returned up to his apartment.

He slammed the door behind him and dropped the mail on the table in front of his father as he walked back to his bedroom. His poorly mended guitar leaned against the corner of the wall, and for a moment he contemplated attempting to play it. But then all he could see were her eyes. The way they looked as she lingered at the door, and he yelled again for her to leave. They were almost all he'd thought about in the year and two months since she disappeared, and it was as if they were haunting him - he saw them in his dreams at night, whenever he looked at a pretty girl, whenever he saw his father get angry. He tore his eyes away from it and instead turned back to the dirty glass of the small window.

"Roger! Get the fuck out here!" he heard his father yell, and obliged, his eyes not leaving the floor. He was barely out the door when he felt the hard fist of his father collide with his cheekbone. Not expecting it, Roger stumbled, but if he felt any pain he didn't show it. "Read this. Just fucking read this!" Roger's father threw an official looking piece of paper in his son's face. Roger, uninterested, pretended to read it, his eyes skimming blankly over the text. "Do you know what this fucking means?" his father shouted, but didn't give Roger a chance to answer. "It means they're kicking you out of school. You're fucking _failing_ out of a goddamn public school. You fucking moron!"

Roger's father shoved him hard, but he tried to ignore the sharp pain in his back as he collided with the corner of a table and fell to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would make his father disappear. "Stand up, dammit!" his father said, kicking him in the ribs. As hard as he tried, Roger couldn't help but wince. He tried to get his feet to move under him, but he felt totally numb. Grabbing him by the wrist, his father yanked him off the ground and twisted his arm painfully behind him. Roger couldn't hide it any more. He cried out in pain, to the amusement of his father. But he didn't care enough to fight back. His father hit him several times in the face, holding one of Roger's shoulders tightly against the wall so he couldn't get away. Roger didn't struggle to get free of his father's grasp, an unusual occurence. It was evident to his father, which only gave him a reason to hit harder. And against his better judgement, Roger let him. He didn't care anymore. He had no idea how long had passed until his father let go, and he slumped to the floor, bruised and bloody. A drunk and bitter look on his face, Roger's father kicked him hard enough to get him across the doorway to his bedroom. "There's a reason these doors have locks," he sneered, taking a larger, old-fashioned looking key from his keychain as he closed the door. Sprawled across the hard wooden floor, Roger heard the metal click and knew he was locked in. He didn't know why, but feeling half-dead on the ground, his eyes filled with hot tears. Feeling his eyes flicker closed, he let himself lie there in pain, and slowly drifted out of conciousness.

When he awoke, his door was open a crack. Yet he knew he had nothing left and nothing left to do. In desperation, he crawled to the corner, his head still spinning from the beating. Knowing nothing else to do, he picked up his guitar and put it in it's black case, decorated with a few stickers. He clung to the bookshelf, trying to pull himself to his feet. Standing the guitar up, he used it for support to get his balance before attempting to walk.

"I'm leaving," Roger choked out.

"What? The fuck you are!" his father retorted, bursting into laughter.

"I said I'm leaving," Roger said, only slightly louder, stumbling towards the door. He didn't look back to see his father laughing too hard to believe what his son said, just opened the door and slammed it shut.

Roger walked down the street, pressing his hand to his head to get rid of the splitting headache that was slowly creeping up on him. The guitar case in his hand seemed to be getting heavier by the minute, and he shifted it to his other hand, blinking to try and keep everything in focus. His vision was blurring. He found himself walking smack into the side of a building at one point. He didn't know where he was going or what he would do when he got there, but oddly enough, he wasn't frightened. He was away from his father, and that was all that mattered at the moment. In fact, he would have been perfectly calm, if the pain shooting through him hadn't been an issue. He had clenched his teeth during the walk so far, and continued to do so. Dealing with pain wasn't exceptionally hard, but this was agony. He wondered if his father had permanently injured him.

Even if his vision hadn't been blurred, he still probably wouldn't have seen the man coming up to him, so intent was he on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. He only saw the guy when they were only about an inch apart from each other.

"Hey, man, you look pretty bad," said the man, an almost evil tone to his voice, and Roger mumbled an apology before walking around him and continuing on his way, beginning to count the cracks in the pavement to keep his mind focused and his vision clear. He heard a slight sound and turned around. The man was holding a small plastic bag, filled with white powder.

Roger knew instantly what it was, though he'd never used it before. "No thanks."

"Come on," said the man, almost seductively. "It'll make you feel better."

Roger shook his head. Continuing on his way, it was only after several seconds that he realized he had purchased the powder and the needle and the matches with the few crumpled dollars in his pocket and was walking down the street with a much more determined step than he had before, though he felt considerably sicker. As much as he was against this, he wanted it. "It'll make you feel better," the man had said, and that's what he wanted. To forget the pain he was in, to forget April. At the first dark alley he got to, he sat down slowly, leaning against the wall for support. He'd seen enough kids getting high at school to know how to use what he'd been given. His hands were shaking as he imitated what they did, eventually hesitating with the needle above his arm. "April, forgive me," he murmured, moving the sharp point into the vein in his arm and wincing in pain. His head fell backwards against the brick, and he closed his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

She awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. She'd had the nightmare again. _It's been three fucking years_, she said to herself. _Get over it already. It's done._ She glanced at the bright red letters on the digital clock next to her bed - 12:49, it read. Quietly, she stood up and walked to her wooden desk, not wanting to wake her roommate. Her leather jacket lay on the chair. Though it was warm outside, she picked it up, slipped it on, and slowly opened the window and climbed out to the fire escape.

_I won't do it_, she said to herself as she sat on the black metal step. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, and after a bit more digging, a cheap lighter. _No. I won't. Not today._ It was hard to resist, knowing it was there, in her pocket. It would be easy to give in, and then she would feel better, and forget the dream. "I _can't,_" she said out loud as she lit a cigarette. "If I do, everyone will know tomorrow - today," she corrected herself. "Then I won't be able to graduate, and I'll have to stay here another fucking year, or worse, have to change schools again. I don't want that." She knew she was trying to be her own voice of reason, but she wasn't being very successful - even as she spoke, her hand slipped back into her pocket, closing around the small bag. _Oh, but it would be so easy to let go and just do it_, said the voice in her head. "Fuck. Since when do I talk to myself? I must have really snapped the tether."

"But who really cares if I do it? Maybe I won't even go tomorrow. Maybe I'll leave. No one will care."

Alone on her fire escape, she gave in, and with the heroin let herself forget.

She did leave. Early the next morning, while it was still dark, before her roommate woke up. She took a few essential things in a small bag, but left mostly everything - as if she'd just disappeared. No one would ever know what happened to her. She threw her bag on the passenger seat and climbed into her old Chevrolet, not looking back once.

The past three years had been such a whirlwind. Ever since that day - the day she refused to speak of, and tried not to think about - her life had fallen apart, piece by piece. A different boarding school every year. Her head was spinning as she drove farther and farther away from the campus - she wasn't sure if it was the heroin from the night before or something else. She barely knew where she was going, until she nearly missed an exit for the interstate, and swerved hard to get on the ramp. "Home," she said out loud. Not even knowing where she meant, she answered the question she was thinking. "Home to New York."

She drove nearly all day to get into New York. Unwillingly, she felt her eyes fill up with tears as she got to the other side of the Lincoln Tunnel. It had been so long since she'd been there. It dawned on her that she hadn't driven a car when she lived in the city, so she drove around for a half hour, looking for the cheapest place to park. She wasn't entirely sure she knew where she was going. There was her sister, but she didn't want to see her parents. The one person she wanted to see she was sure wouldn't be there. There was only one thing to do. Start over. For now, it was already eight at night. What she wanted to do was sleep, but there was nowhere to do that.

She settled on walking around for several hours. There was nothing better to do - she would go see her old hometown, but she knew that if she went then, there would be a possibility of bumping into her sister or one of her parents, all of whom she didn't want to deal with now. _And walking around alone in the city has it's conveniences_, she thought. It had been less than 24 hours, but she was craving her drug again. She turned down an alley and leaned against a brick wall, digging in the pocket of her jeans for money. Her hand emerged with two very crumpled ten dollar bills. "Shit," she muttered. _I could have sworn I had more than this._ She hoped - prayed, even - it would be enough for something to hold her off 'till she could find a way to get more money.

It wasn't long before she found herself crouched in an alley, a needle in her hand. She had no money left, but she had her fix, which was all that mattered. Until she realized where she was. "Fuck," she said softly, looking up at the windows on the building. Blinking, she pulled herself away. She needed this more than ever. She wondered for a moment if he still lived there, if his father still lived there. Afte a moment, she shook her head, stopping herself from getting farther into memories by pressing the needle hard into the scarred skin of her arm.


	6. Chapter 6

April stood in St. Mark's Place, wrapped in a black overcoat that was far too big for her, yet still shivering. Dry, dead brown leaves fell from the crooked branches of trees with each gust of wind. Yes, she'd promised her best friend she'd meet her at Club Leo at 9, but she couldn't risk him not being here when she left. She let her long, auburn hair out of the messy bun it had been in, and it hung down, mostly covering her face. She saw him approaching from across the square, and reached into the pocket of her jeans for money, her hands shaking. 6 or 7 other people started walking forward too. Why didn't I notice them? she thought, quickening her pace so she wouldn't be late for her friends. Without a word, the distance between her and the man lessened and then completely disappeared. Her trembling fingers - was it the cold air, or a fix? she wondered - counted out the bills, three twenties and a five, in front of him, and when he smirked and reached into his pocket, she held the money out to him, and he took it with his other hand. Pulling her close, he put a small plastic bag of white powder, a needle and several matches in her hand, and closed her fingers around them. Biting her bottom lip, she smiled, then whirled around and began running. Before she realized that she wasn't looking where she was going, she slammed right into someone - obviously another customer. The matches slipped out of her hand and scattered on the cement. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry," she stammered, as they both bent down to pick the matches up. She felt her face turning bright red, and she stared at the cement to avoid meeting his eyes. "It's nothing, really," he said, and placed several matches into her hand. "I-I've gotta go," she said, standing quickly and running around the corner before he could say anything.

Backstage, Roger sat on a stool, a bottle of beer in one hand and a small blue guitar pick in the other. He took a long, sustained swig from the bottle, feeling the biting liquid dash down his throat and give him the rush of energy that he'd need for tonight. He never got nervous before concerts, and he wasn't nervous now. But without the alcohol, he knew he'd be lost. He set the bottle down now, picked up his guitar, and strummed a few notes out. He played the first few measures of the song he was opening up the show with. He listened very carefully, making sure every note sounded exactly the way he wanted it to, and he played through the piece in its entirety very softly. He took several more swigs of beer. It wasn't long before he knew he was ready, so he grabbed his instrument, and walked out onstage. There was scattered applause through the club, which he disregarded, strumming a few chords and then tapping the microphone to make sure it was working. Looking out into the crowd, he took a deep breath and began to play.

April sat at a table for two while her best friend and roommate went to get them beers. "Hey, babe!" a voice said, and she turned to see Maureen place two brown glass bottles on the table. She kissed April's cheek with genuine concern, and for the first time all night, a real smile crossed April's face. "Here, drink this, we'll listen to this guy play, and then we'll go home. Okay?" April nodded, and took a long sip of the beer. She looked up at the small stage. Something about the man standing there seemed very familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. As he began playing, a fierce, passionate rock song, all her thoughts seemed to stop. She couldn't help but smile up at him.

Roger considered the song he was playing the best he had written. Most were your average rock song, he'd own up to that, but this was about a girl - a girl he'd loved long ago. His eyes scanned quickly through the people sitting in front of him, and eventually fell on a girl near the front with red hair. She was smiling at him, but something about it seemed almost seductive. Without him even meaning to, his gaze lingered on the girl, and he returned the smile.

"Are you sure you're not coming?" Maureen said, holding open the cab door for her friend. "I'm positive," April said, gesturing for Maureen to get in the cab. "I'll be home by two, I promise!" April called to Maureen as the cab drove away. Waiting until she was sure the cab was out of sight, April ran around to the back of the club. All that was in the alley was a big blue dumpster, and people rarely went back there, especially at night. She walked slowly behind the dumpster and sat on a cinder block. Using all her strength, she tore off a strip of cloth from the bottom of her black t-shirt, slipped off her coat, despite the cold, and tied it as tightly as she could around her upper arm. She rummaged through the pocket of her coat, and pulled out the needle, along with two matches and a small votive candle. She used the matches to light each other, and blew one out while lighting the candle with the other. Getting out the powder and the spoon she'd taken from the club, she poured the bag's contents into the spoon and held it over the flame, watching the shadows the fire cast against the metal. After a moment, she took out the needle, her hand trembling as she put the heated powder from the spoon into it. "What are you doing here?" a voice said. April turned around quickly and looked up to see none other than the man who'd played in the club that night. She threw her hands behind her back, dropping her needle and spoon as she blinked, her long black eyelashes contrasting beautifully against her pale skin. He stared into her cold blue eyes for a moment, knowing he'd seen them somewhere, just before she lowered her head to him. Moments later, he bent down to kneel on the cold tar of the alley next to her, and she was shocked to see him pull out a needle from his own pocket. "I'll get that," he said, taking out a lighter and relighting her candle, that she hadn't realized had extinguished itself. She put her spoon on the ground and lifted up the needle. "Would you mind if I used that?" he asked, gesturing at the spoon. "No, go right ahead," she said. She didn't know why she was hesitating, but she was, and she didn't like it. "You're the girl from the club tonight, aren't you?" he tilted his head and looked her into her eyes again. She nodded, and he took it. "I'm Roger. Roger Davis."

April felt like her heart had stopped beating. Her mouth hung open in disbelief. It couldn't be...or was it? Maybe that's why he seemed so familiar; why we connected, she thought. "R-Roger?" she choked out in shock. She felt her eyes begin to fill up with tears even saying only his name. He looked at her, confused. "Yeah?" he asked. "Oh, fuck," she said. "You don't remember me, do you?" She blinked. She extended her empty hand and placed it over his. "Roger, it's me." He looked confused. He obviously had no idea who she was, and that in itself was enough to send April into another breakdown. She felt sick. _Of course he doesn't remember me, why would he remember me?_ she thought bitterly. "It's me. April." She turned away, not wanting to look at him any more as she searched for a vein to shoot the heroin.

'It's me. April,' she'd said, and as soon as the words escaped her mouth he knew. His hands instinctually reached out to her shoulders, and when she turned back to face him, her face was stained with tears. Seeing her again, even like this, he couldn't help himself. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips firmly against hers.

It was 2:18 in the morning when April got to Roger's small apartment, after asking to use his phone. Roger stood behind her as she slowly dialed the number to the phone in her own apartment. She breathed a sigh of relief as she heard her's and Maureen's voices on the answering machine, not knowing how she would explain it if her roommate had picked up. "Hey, Maureen, it's me. I just wanted to tell you that I'm okay and I'll be home soon, I promise." She stopped, thinking of what to say next, and he slowly slid his hands over her small, bony hips. "I'll call you when I'm coming back. Bye." She hung up quickly, and spun around so she was facing Roger. Smiling, she opened her mouth to speak, but before she had the chance, Roger had pulled her into a long kiss. They slowly pulled away from each other, a thick heat seeming to linger between the two. After a few seconds, Roger reached forward, taking the bottom of her ripped black t-shirt in his hands, and pulled it over her head as she lifter her arms gracefully into the air. It fell down to the floor, landing at her feet in a small pile. He slowly traced his hands down her body - her soft, red hair; the defined cheekbones of her thin, gaunt face; her bony shoulders; her small, round chest under a black lace bra; the visible bones of her ribs; her tiny, flat stomach; the hard bones of her hips at her waist, ending at her low-cut, short, black leather skirt, which he unzipped, letting it slip off her body. His hands wrapped around her small waist, she tilted her head back, the waves her her hair falling over her shoulders as he passionately kissed her neck. She pushed him back slightly, grabbing his shirt, pulling it quickly over his head, and throwing it against the wall. She held him tightly, and he put his hands on her cheeks as they leaned in towards each other, kissing as fiercely as if they never had before. He pushed her back gently, flipping her hair over one of her shoulders as she turned around. His fingers fumbled with the small metal clasp of her bra until it came loose and slipped off. He wrapped an arm around her bare shoulders, leading her to his bed in the corner of the small apartment. They shed the rest of their clothes and laid down on the bed, becoming only a tangle of tongues, bodies, and sheets.

When April woke up the next day, it was already midafternoon. It took her a minute to realize where she was, and that the arms she was wrapped in were Roger's. She smiled, and pulled her knees up, curling herself into his chest. The warmth of her skin pressed against him gently woke up Roger, who blinked, rubbed his eyes, and smiled. "Move in with me," he murmured, stroking her soft, red hair. She smiled and kissed his arm. "I should call Maureen," she said, smiled, and pulled the sheet off the bed as she stood so that it wrapped around her small body. As April walked to the phone, Roger rolled over. April's impression remained on the bed, and he put his cheek against the pillow where her head had been, feeling its warmth. It was amazing to him how, in such a short time, he could feel happy again. It had been five years since they'd last seen each other; five long, painful years. Roger would ask her about it someday, when he wasn't so blissfully happy. For now, he didn't want to think about when he'd been hospitalized, or when he'd run away rfom home, or when he'd first used drugs. This sort of calm, blissfull existence was what he'd always wanted. "Come on," April's voice said, her hand reaching down to help him up as she stood above him. "Get dressed. We're going to get my stuff." She smiled as he got to his feet, and she took an oversized t-shirt from Roger's chair and pulled it on over her bare chest, letting the sheet drop to the floor.


	7. Chapter 7

They had been living together for a year when April called home from a pay phone. "Hey, Roger, it's me," her voice said on the answering machine. "I don't know where you went, but I'm on my way to the doctor's, to get the results from those tests a couple days ago. I'm sure it's nothing, probably the flu - stop being worried, seriously. I'll be home in an hour or so. Love you!"

What April wasn't expecting was to come home an hour and a half later, her eyes red and her face stained with tears, clutching a file of papers as she entered the empty apartment. She threw the folder bitterly onto the bed, several papers falling out. "Oh, Roger," she sobbed. She walked to the dresser, traced her fingers gently across the glass the covered the framed picture of the two of them on her birthday. Opening the top drawer, she moved aside random objects - wallets, dollar bills, photos - until she found a small, wrinkled scrap of paper. She grabbed a black fine-tip pen and impulsively ran into the bathroom. Tears streaming down her face, her hand quivered roughly as she managed to write 10 words - _'Roger - We've got AIDS. I love you. Love always, A.'_ Small teardrops landed on the paper, smearing the ink, but she didn't care. She stood in front of the sink, her hand clutched around the paper, looking for something she could use. Opening the mirror-cabinet, she found exactly what she had been looking for. The silver metal of the small scissors felt ice-cold in her hands. She couldn't stop shaking. There was no other option, she knew it - she would rather die than bring into the world a child with AIDS - a child with no chance of life. The one inside of her. Hesitating, she wrapped her forearm around her stomach. She closed her eyes, rocking herself gently back and forth, trying to get the courage to go through with this. "Oh, Roger, please understand," she thought aloud. She took a deep breath as she pressed the blade of the scissors to the vein on her wrist, harder and harder until the skin broke. She gasped in pain as she dragged it upwards, part of her thinking she was making a terrible mistake, and the other part knowing it was the right thing to do. Blood began to pour from her wrists as she switched hands. This time, she felt numbness. Like her insides had turned to a block of ice. She stood for a moment, feeling blood flow out of her body, and then collapsed to her knees, falling on the once-white tile floor that was now stained with red. "Roger, I love you," she whispered hoarsely, as her vision clouded and went black.

Roger entered the apartment, carrying a beer. "April?" he called. It usually wasn't this quiet. She'd have music on, or be playing with his guitar, or on the phone. He walked to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, so he pushed it open. His hand lost its grip on the glass bottle in his hand, and it shattered to the floor. A paper had fallen out of her hand, and as he sank to his knees, he read it. He felt his heart stop beating in his chest. "No, April, baby, no," he choked out as his eyes filled with tears. He knelt over her body, reaching awkwardly for her arm. "Oh, God, no, April, no." He wanted to stay with her, to hold her body, but instead he stood up and ran to the phone. He dialed 911, and hurriedly told the operator what had happened and the address. He slammed the phone into the cradle, and let himself break down. He walked to the bed, wanting to sit down, but there were papers that got in the way. He carefully picked them up, straightening them, and then saw something that caught his attention. "No," he said out loud. But there it was, in black and white - April, his April, was pregnant. He picked up the file as he walked back over to the phone, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he tried to recall Maureen's new number. She picked up after two rings. "Hello?" she said. "Maureen, it's Roger." There was silence. "April's dead. We have...I have. She had. AIDS. Maureen, she...she was pregnant. With my child." He heard Maureen begin to sob on the other end of the phone. "There's an ambulance on their way here now. I was wondering...I can't stay here. I won't stay here. Do you know anywhere I could...?" Maureen took a deep breath. She obviously didn't want him to hear her crying. "I live with Mark, my boyfriend - there's an extra room, if you're interested. It's a cheap apartment - he won't charge much." There was a knock on the door. "Maureen, the paramedics are here. I'll call you soon." He hung up, ran to the door, and opened it. The paramedics rushed in, carrying a stretcher, and Roger simply pointed to the open bathroom door. He couldn't go in there again. Tears rolled silently down his cheeks as he reread the note and the papers in the file. His April, his beloved April, was gone. As the paramedics carried out the stretcher, he managed to briefly touch her pale, lifeless cheek. He followed them outside and stared longingly at her body as the stretcher was put into an ambulance, and watched as it drove away. She was gone.


End file.
